Star Trek: Birthright: Shakedown
by koinekid
Summary: Series Rewrite: Story 01 Enterprise ships out six months early to investigate the destruction of the UES Palmyra on live television. Tucker is first officer. T'Pol is a civilian diplomatic liaison.
1. 1A: Gardner

**Star Trek: Birthright**

**Story 1: Shakedown**

**Disclaimer:** Paramount and Viacom hold exclusive rights to all characters and story elements associated with the television series _Star Trek: Enterprise_. The following story has been created for entertainment purposes only, and no profit has been made by the author.

**Genre:** Adventure/Romance, Series Rewrite, TnT**  
**

**Note:** Not quite an homage to the guys over at _Star Trek: Foundations, _but written in the same spirit. There are inherent similarities in any series rewrite that attempts to address problems in the source material. _Enterprise_ was promoted as a series laying the groundwork for all the tech and politics of the Federation in Kirk's time. Transporters were untrustworthy, there were no phasers, no shields, no replicators. Certain technological marvels that only multiple species laboring together would bring about should not yet exist. Instead, we received a series with safer transporters than Kirk's (no accidental traveling across universes for Archer), phasers called phase pistols, shields called hull plating, and replicators called protein re-sequencers. There's even a Vulcan science officer/XO who has her own Amok Time. Nothing wrong with those similarities, but I'd like to see the no frills universe I thought I was getting. (I believe _Foundations _seeks to correct a few of the specific problems I mentioned). And I'd like to see the ship's resident Vulcan as something other than a female version of Spock. Therefore, in my version T'Pol is neither first officer (Even if her Vulcan rank superceded Trip's UESPA rank--and I challenge the validity of that statement--it was still a Vulcan rank and had little meaning on a Terran ship), nor a science officer. Again, nothing wrong with that, but we've seen it before. _Birthright's_ T'Pol is retired from the Vulcan military after having rendered the service compensatory for all able bodied Vulcans, and is currently a diplomat, _Enterprise's_ liaison with the Vulcan government. She has as much authority on the ship as a representative of a foreign government would have on a US Naval vessel, which is to say, not a lot.

**Note 2:** UESPA is in my mind more akin to NASA than a military organization. Historically, more NASA astronauts have had a background in the Air Force than the Navy. Should this trend continue, it seems likely that a yet to be created independent Space Probe Agency will employ an Air Force rank structure (Colonel, Lt. Colonel, etc.) rather than a Naval one (Captain, Commander, etc.). I considered utilizing such a structure for UESPA, but ultimately chose to retain the more familiar Trek Naval System. "Colonel Archer," though perhaps more likely, would appear unnatural to the reader. 

**3.** _Enterprise's_ military contingent, known on the show as "MACOs," are herein called simply "Marines" and employ a US Marine rank structure. This squad, however, is referred to by the nickname "Macos." Think of the famed World War II Easy Company.

**4.** There is no Starfleet. UESPA has a fleet of Warp 3 and 4 capable ships, but Starfleet is a Federation term.

**5.** It's a big universe out there, and _Birthright _will reflect this. Characters will be promoted and reassigned, and new ones will take their places. Just because a character leaves _Enterprise,_ it does not mean he will leave the story. There will be as much action on Earth and Vulcan as there will be on the ship. T'Pol's family will be featured prominently from the start.

**6. **Major storylines will be revisited, and resolved in different ways. Why recount something the audience has already seen unless a new spin is placed on it? This is not "What if Trip had remained First Officer of the Enterprise?" Events of season four may be transferred to season one and vice verse, or they may be thrown out all together. A Trip-centric event may be revised with Malcolm as a the central character. Still, my favorite characters are Trip and T'Pol, so they will feature prominently in the story.

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**Star Trek: Birthright  
Story 1: Shakedown**_  
_

_UES Palmyra_

Sector 014

1 April 2151

17:58 UTC

When he had confirmed the ship's spatial coordinates, the Captain took a moment and scrutinized its bridge crew. Their faces, or in the case of the helm officer the back of his head, brought to mind their individual strengths and weaknesses. They were not UESPA's best, nor did this mission require them to be.

At just after 18:00 hours the ship would deploy the last of eight subspace amplifiers designed to extend Earth's effective communications range well into the region of space the Vulcans called the Beta Quadrant. Soon after, the Captain's words would be piped into every home, every classroom, every public address system on Earth seconds after he spoke them. No more seventeen minute delays as compressed data streams raced across the light years. For two minutes, he would communicate near instantly at a distance farther from home than any human ever had.

Were he an optimist, he might have been tempted to believe those two minutes would secure his place in history, that his remarks would make the documentaries alongside the footage from Apollo 11, NASA's _Enterprise_ rolling onto the tarmac at Cape Kennedy, and Cochrane's speech at the groundbreaking of the Warp Five Complex. But Captain Dominic Gardner was not an optimist. Barring unforeseen damage to _Palmyra's_ warp three engines, its crew could expect to return to Earth in just under a year; and Gardner knew the planet would forget his words long before it welcomed him home.

Yet his superiors at United Earth Space Probe Agency still expected a speech worthy of the history books, or at least one that would play well to the press. Try as he might, though, he could think of nothing fitting to say. The mission had been thoroughly and unremarkably routine. No major complications, no system malfunctions, no harrowing near misses to inspire the masses. Nothing for Gardner to rely on save his own thoughts. He almost sighed. History's most famous astronaut had captured the mood of his mission in a single quotable sentence. Gardner's own words were often terse, but seldom quotable. Neil Armstrong, he was not.

_That's one small step..._

Deploying this last amplifier was indeed a small step. The giant leap would come in six months' time, and would be taken by another ship, another crew. The launch of Archer's _Enterprise_ would outshine every one of the NX program's previous achievements. Frankly, it should. _Enterprise _would top out at just over warp five if the gents at Warp Development weren't exaggerating. The distance _Palmyra_ had taken a year to travel, _Enterprise _could cover in seventy days. Gardner was only laying the road; Archer would travel it.

Gardner was, he reflected in a sudden burst of Sunday-school-fueled insight, John the Baptist to Archer's Jesus Christ. And like the Baptist, he would fade willingly into the limelight once his task was complete. He only hoped he'd get to keep his head.

The voice of his science officer broke in on his brooding. "Captain, we have arrived."

Gardner did not bother with eye contact, only bobbed his head in the direction of the science station. He spoke rapidly, not specifying to which station he was directing each order. The crew knew their jobs. "Full stop. Scan the system for hostiles. Prepare for deployment." Unspoken were his standing orders whenever coming out of warp: Polarize the hull plating and bring weapons on line. Just in case.

"Sir," Commander Hernandez said, "I have a Denobulan light cruiser on long range sensors. Vulcan database lists the race as 'gregarious.'"

"Could've just called them 'friendly,'" the science officer muttered.

Gardner noted the outburst and filed it away for mention on the lieutenant's next performance evaluation. _Engaged in idle talk while on duty._

Returning his attention to Hernandez, he said, "Are they heading our way?"

"No, sir," she said. "The Denobulans have not altered course since our arrival. They will exit sensor range in three...two...I've lost them, sir."

"So much for 'friendly.'" The science officer muttered again.

"Culture isn't your department, Lieutenant," Gardner said. "Keep the comments to yourself." He interrupted the lieutenant's hasty apology. "Anything else in range?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Weapons on standby, then. Depolarize hull plating." Gardner let his gaze linger on the Commander. Erika Hernandez was tactical officer on a ship that seldom needed one. She was also _Palmyra's _XO, and the lightened tactical duties allowed plenty of time to focus on learning the rigors of command. Though not a listed mission objective, Gardner knew grooming Hernandez for the captaincy was nearly as important to his superiors as setting up the subspace communications system. He could not foresee a future in which she would not soon exchange the red piping of ship's services for the gold of command.

"Subspace amplifier is ready, sir," came the shaky voice of the lieutenant.

"Deploy when ready."

Automatically, the image on the forward view screen dissolved to be replaced by the camera feed from the depressurized cargo bay. A crane arm grasped the cylindrical amplifier, and when the magnetic catches mooring it to the floor released, the arm lifted it slowly, almost hesitantly through the open bay doors. Its cargo away, the arm retracted. The amplifier drifted, and just before the bay doors resealed, blocking it from view, fired its stabilizer jets for the first time.

The next few minutes were spent on final preparation: gauging signal strength, testing security protocols, and for the Captain, composing a short, rousing, cliché-ridden speech. When all stations reported ready, Gardner took a breath and ordered a connection to be established.

For a moment just long enough to wonder whether something had gone wrong, the screen remained black. Then Admiral Forrest's smiling face appeared on screen. "Greetings from home, _Palmyra_. I trust the connection is holding steady." Receiving confirmation, he continued, "Good, good. The people of Earth are eager to hear from you. Are you ready, Dominic?"

Gardner's jaw twitched at the breach of decorum, and Forrest had the good grace to look abashed. The two had served together long enough for Forrest to become aware of Gardner's zealous adherence to protocol. First names were fine for private channels, but as far as Gardner was concerned, once he stepped on the bridge he had no first name. Still, it wouldn't do to correct a superior officer. He nodded, before remembering to reply verbally. "Yes, sir."

The colleagues exchanged pleasantries, or what passed for pleasantries for the Captain a few moments longer while the _Palmyra's_ feed was routed to Earth's news networks. "All right, _Captain,_" he said at last, emphasizing the rank more heavily than necessary, and if Gardner knew the Admiral as well as he thought he did more heavily than intended, "You're on."

"Greetings, people of Earth, and our distinguished non-Terran guests. Today is a momentous day for us all as we take one more small step on our tentative trek into the stars." _So far, so good,_ Gardner realized. Sure, the phrase "momentous day" was overused in speeches like this, but he doubted anyone would call him on it. Today might turn out well after all. He almost allowed himself to be an optimist as he continued his speech. He got out all of five words before he lost his footing and struck his head against the arm of his command chair. Blood clouded his vision. He dimly registered Hernandez shouting a warning before explosive sparks lit up the bridge. _Too bright._ He closed his eyes.

Fire-suppression systems activated, and the water felt cool on his cheek.

Duty demanded he open his eyes. Protocol demanded, and briefly he obeyed. But they fluttered closed again. He mentally shrugged. At least he had tried. _Now sleep._ His last thought before succumbing to the blackness was that he'd not need to mention the science officer's bad behavior on his next evaluation. The lieutenant was already dead. Lieutenant...Lieutenant...

Maybe it was his blood loss or the concussion he must surely have, but for the life of him he couldn't recall the lieutenant's name. And that made him unbearably sad.

_TBC_

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Cast of Characters

_NX-101 ENTERPRISE_ _PERSONNEL_

**Commanding Officer:** Jonathan Archer, CAPT  
**Executive Officer / Chief Engineer: **Charles Tucker III, CDR  
**Chief Science Officer: **Gregory Matthews, LCDR, 3IC  
**Chief Tactical Officer: **Malcolm Reed, LT, 4IC  
**Chief Cultural and Linguistics Officer: **Hoshi Sato, LT  
**Asst. Chief Engineer:** Clara Hess, LT  
**Helm: **Travis Mayweather, ENS

**Senior Military Officer: **Jeremy Hayes, Maj  
**Marine:** Carlos Tudyk, GySgt  
**Marine:** Amanda Cole, Cpl

**Chief Medical Officer: **Phlox  
**Vulcan Liaison: **T'Pol, SCDR Vulcan Military (Inactive)  
**Chef: **Marcus De La Croix

_CGS-089 PALMYRA PERSONNEL_

**Commanding Officer:** Dominic Gardner, CAPT  
**Executive Officer: **Erika Hernandez, CDR

_UESPA COMMAND / VULCAN COMPOUND, SAN FRANCISO_

**Head of NX Program: **Maxwell Forrest, RADM  
**Head of Special Projects: **Arthur Black, CAPT  
**Head of Warp Development:** William Matt Jeffries, CAPT  
**Warp Development Team Member: **David Kelby, LCDR  
**Aide**** to Admiral Forrest:** Folarin Onafowokan, LT

**Vulcan Ambassador:** Soval

**First Secretary:** T'Kin  
**Second Secretary: **Xoss

_VULCAN HOMEWORLD_

**Administrator of the High Command:** V'Las  
**Member of the High Command: **Kuvak, Minister  
**Aide**** to Administrator V'Las: **Dradox  
(husband to T'Les; father to T'Pol)

**Chair of Biology, Vulcan** **Science** **Academy: **T'Les  
(wife to Dradox; mother to T'Pol)

_Characters appearing for the first time in this fiction include:_

LCDR Gregory Matthews  
GySgt Carlos Tudyk  
LT Folarin Onafowokan  
Xoss  
T'Kin

Such characters should not be considered part of Star Trek canon. But then, nothing in this fiction is part of Trek canon, is it?

Other characters herein exist in canon, but do not appear on screen, remain wholly or partially unnamed, or both.

_First names have been invented for these characters in this fiction:_

Arthur Black  
Dominic Gardner  
Jeremy Hayes (Canon establishes his first initial as "J.")  
Clara Hess  
William Matt Jeffries (Canon seems to establish his initials as "W.M.")

A complete name has been given to Chef: Marcus De La Croix, and to T'Pol's father: Dradox. Both characters are mentioned in the series, but do not appear on screen.

Certain familial relationships in this fiction may not reflect the relationships as presented in the series.


	2. 1B: Forrest

**Note:** A little shorter than I should like, but the muse strings me along like...well, like season three and four T'Pol did Trip...and I follow all her directives.

**2: **To Rigil and others who commented on the gargantuan length of this project, should it be fully realized: I can do aught but concur. This'll be a long one. But I never intended it to be finished in a week. I find a good fanfiction always helps alleviate my frustrations when working on an original story. I hit a snag on a novel and a couple of short stories I've been penning, and figure a good Trek story would get the creative juices sparkling again.

**Disclaimer:** See first chapter.

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UESPA Command

San Francisco, California

18:16 UTC

His hands were in motion before his mind could process what he had seen. On his screen, Rear Admiral Maxwell Forrest minimized _Palmyra's_ dead subspace feed and called up the fleet deployment maps. Gardner's deep space mission had been projected as low risk: no away missions, no contact with non-Terran vessels, and a flight plan Ambassador Soval claimed intersected no inhabited systems. The politician in Forrest wondered if the destruction of _Palmyra_--for there could be no doubt that was what he had witnessed--would convince United Earth to approve the funding necessary to construct a larger fleet. Had UESPA possessed more than eight warp four capable vessels, this low-risk mission might have rated a better ship.

Low risk, ha! Forrest could well imagine his father's ire at hearing any space mission referred to that way. To hear the old man tell it, the stars had lured both his siblings to their deaths. Forrest had learned early on to keep his developing interest in space exploration to himself. He'd finally come clean the summer after his sophomore year in college. Not coincidentally that was the year Earth Gov had approved free higher education for all citizens.

The fleet maps told Forrest little that he did not already know. Of the two warp four vessels in the Beta Quadrant, the closest was five months from _Palmyra_. Hindsight made clear what should have been from the beginning. Those sectors Gardner had seeded with subspace amplifiers, UESPA had reserved for _Enterprise_ to explore, and in so doing, made _Palmyra's_ captain an easy target. With no backup, he'd fallen prey to an unknown danger. Under his breath, Forrest cursed himself.

Then he activated his intercom. "Onafowokan."

His aide entered the office without acknowledging the summons. The Nigerian lieutenant knew his boss's preference for face-to-face communication. "Sir?" he said.

"You saw the transmission?" Forrest genuinely could not tell as Onafowokan's expression betrayed no reaction. Many a face crumbled under stress, lip quivering, brows raised, eyes looking to you as if you could make it all better; others were too intentionally solemn with deep frown lines and eyes unfocused as if contact would reveal the grief their owners thought they were hiding. Not his. It was a good expression, a command expression. Hmm. Erika's death must have hit Forrest harder than he realized if he was already looking to replace her as his protégé.

"Aye, sir," Onafowokan said.

"Forward it to Sciences. I want to know what happened on that ship to the last detail. And I want a secure line--no, an appointment with Soval within the hour."

Onafowokan acknowledged his orders and departed.

Alone, Forrest buried his face in his hands. For three minutes, he allowed grief and loathing to flood over him. Grief for friends and promising young officers and loathing for the public relations nightmare ahead. He indulged in a moment of _self_-loathing for that consideration, then plowed ahead. The head of the NX Program did have an obligation to concern himself with such things. Citizens across the globe--worse, children across the globe, had witnessed the possible slaughter of up to twenty-seven of Earth's finest on live television. It was then that he faced up to what his frantic hands and obvious orders had attempted to forestall his admitting, that most of the crew was indeed already dead, and that unless he could convince the Vulcans to send a rescue ship, the rest would soon follow.

Lifepods had limited life support capability. Two weeks of air and perhaps that much food and water. If they weren't scooped up by a passing ship, they would float indefinitely in space while their passengers slowly suffocated to death. Assuming the worst case scenario, that the closest Vulcan ships were those in orbit around their homeworld, a warp six ship could make it to the pods just within the window of opportunity. This assumed of course that any of the crew made it to lifepods.

Other thoughts tickling the back of his mind he would not consider until after he spoke with Soval. If it turned out _Palmyra_ had in fact been attacked by another ship, would Earth Gov consider it an act of war? Had its unknown attacker believed Earth to have committed an act of war? Erika's final words still echoed in his ears: "Two off port. They came out of nowhere."

Something a little less than a premonition and a little more than nerves prompted his next action. He removed his personal communicator from its pouch at his belt and verbally directed the device to contact its intended target. A chirp indicated a connection, and the target acknowledged he was online.

No time for pleasantries. "Jon," Forrest said, "We need you back in San Francisco. Double quick."

_TBC_


	3. 1C: Archer

**Note: **Apologies for the delay; I was ill.

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

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Warp Five Complex

Bozeman, Montana

18:18 UTC

In the six years since his promotion to Captain, Jonathan Archer had contrived a dozen and a half ways to avoid deep space assignments. He took frequent family leaves--"my father's illness, you understand"--called in old favors or begged new ones, and whenever he caught wind of a plot to send him any great distance from Earth, used up just enough of his accumulated vacation leave to throw his reliability into doubt.

This behavior left him with the reputation of a prima donna in some circles; in others, rumors persisted that he had lost the nerve for exploration. Were he any other man with any other last name, his closet reputation would have concerned him. But no one would challenge an Archer's character in public. And public perception was everything. Besides, Archer hadn't shirked the responsibilities of his rank. He had captained no less than four exploratory missions, one of which took him away from Earth for more than a year.

He always returned from those missions, or from his tours as a diplomatic escort, more in love with the stars than ever before. The days immediately following his homecoming were the toughest. It was then that he gave serious thought to accepting one or another of those long-term assignments or applying for another not offered him. Only his great fear stopped him. As soon as he committed himself to _Tacoma_ or _Exultant_ or _Dorchester_--all fine ships--_Enterprise's_ mission would be green-lit. With someone else in _his_ chair.

Call it nepotism, call it favoritism. _Enterprise_ was his father's ship, and he belonged on it.

As a boy, Archer dreamed of captaining the then unnamed NX-101 As a more realistic ensign, later a lieutenant, he ached to pilot it, to feel it buck and shudder beneath his fingers as he gently urged it past the second star to the right and straight on till morning. Then warp development stalled out at four point two, and he had to resign himself to spending his time as a lieutenant commander and commander on ships that traveled at only 64 times the speed of light.

The mild depression he had been nursing flared in 2143 when his father contacted him with news of a significant breakthrough that put the 101 on the fast track to completion. Being nine months from Earth in a region with limited subspace amplification, his ship could stay in touch only through bimonthly data bursts. _Enterprise_, Archer concluded, might leave spacedock at any time without him knowing. Worst yet, it might have left already. Hell was the two month wait before the next data burst. The elation he felt upon receipt of Henry Archer's "we've hit a snag" message still filled him with shame today.

His father's illness had already progressed to the point where Henry would be unable to accompany _Enterprise _on its maiden voyage. Unless he lightened his workload, he might not even live to see the launch. All his son could do back then was bemoan missing out on a plum assignment.

No matter. Jonathan Archer was on Earth now, the assigned CO of _Enterprise_, and Henry...had been seized with a wracking cough.

"Dad." Archer wrapped an arm around Henry's shoulders and steadied the man while he recovered his breath. A hyper spanner clattered to the floor, bending beyond usefulness. Henry should not have been out of bed, let alone working.

"Don't," Henry wheezed.

Archer frowned. "Don't what?"

"Give me that look. I had a theory. I had to test it."

"I'm sure Trip would have--"

"_Commander Tucker_ has more important things to worry over than minor systems adjustments." Henry thrust a finger into the air. "And don't you forget that. Your chief engineer belongs with his engine, not dashing about the ship spot-welding tiny problems."

Archer tilted his head. "So, tiny problems are under the Head of Warp Development's purview."

"Why not? I can't handle much of anything else these days."

Neither said anything for a moment after that. They had had this conversation before. It never ended well.

At last, Henry spoke, "He shouldn't be first officer either. Splits his focus too much."

They had had this conversation too, but the territory was more comfortable. Each was too bullheaded to consider the other's position, and each knew it.

"Trip deserves the job," Archer said. "He took a bullet for me."

"This is how you repay him? By turning him from a perfectly good engineer into a pogue."

_Pogue: Personnel Other than Grunts._ Archer grinned at the Marine invective meant as an insult against administrators. His father had mispronounced it and probably misused it too. But Henry smiled as he said it, and the smile did Archer's heart good.

"I suppose that would make me a pogue as well."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Officers shouldn't use such language. I thought I raised you better."

The opening of a heavy door atop a staircase cut off Archer's reply, and the man whose fate he and his father had been discussing tromped down the stairs. "Been looking all over for you fellows," he said, his words tinged with a gentle Southern cadence. When he reached the pair, his eyes shifted to the panel Henry had opened earlier. His knees bent as if he meant to kneel and check over Henry's modifications. Only a dark look from the elder Archer stopped him.

"The broadcast is about to start if y'all are interested," Trip said. He checked the clock on his communicator. "Actually, it's probably started already."

Henry shook his head. "We'll catch one of the replays." He clapped a hand on Trip's shoulder, said "Come, take a look at this," and led him across the room to a bank of monitors.

Archer tuned out his father's careful explanation of some modification or another he wished Trip to consider. Archer had not inherited Henry's easy familiarity with warp physics, and he had no problem admitting to himself the discussion was over his head. Few minds could function on Henry's level where warp was concerned. Trip's could, and a small part of Archer begrudged him this connection with Henry which he could not duplicate.

An insistent chirping sounded forth, and Archer dug into his jacket pocket for his communicator. He flipped the cover open and answered the call.

"Jon, we need you back in San Francisco. Double Quick."

"Acknowledged, sir." He ended the call. "Trip, mind keeping the old man company? I've got to go."

_TBC_


	4. 1D: Xoss

**Disclaimer: **See Ch. 1

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Vulcan Complex

San Francisco

11:36 UTC

Xoss of Vulcan did not jog down the hall, never would he jog in a municipal building, but he did quicken his pace. Three full minutes had passed since his summons, and having been across the complex when he received it would not excuse his tardiness.

Newly arrived on Earth, Xoss had begun training for the position of Second Secretary to the Vulcan Ambassador. The current officeholder, T'Kin would soon step into the First Secretary's position when it was vacated by T'Pol. She, after much personal campaigning it was rumored, had been reassigned as Vulcan's diplomatic liaison to the soon-to-be-launched human ship NX-101. Xoss was uncertain whether to believe these rumors, as he could not see the logic in actively seeking such an assignment. True, T'Pol would be unsupervised, and this was almost unprecedented for one of her youth. But it was still a less prestigious assignment than her current. In addition, the latest negotiations with UESPA had pared down her on-board staff from two to one to none. The prospect of being alone on a ship of humans made the posting, if possible, even less desirable.

Might it be a punishment then? Unlikely. The portion of T'Pol's service record Xoss's security clearance allowed him to access revealed a competent diplomat with perhaps an ambassadorship in her future. He cleared his mind of these thoughts and slowed his steps outside Ambassador Soval's office.

Xoss opened the door and strode to T'Kin's side. He had hoped to find her standing apart from the main crowd. Instead, along with T'Pol, she flanked the Ambassador to either side. Xoss's presence meant the Vulcans outnumbered the humans in the room--Admiral Forrest and Lieutenant Onafowokan--two to one. According to T'Kin, humans would often get the impression you were "ganging up on them" if you outnumbered them too greatly. Indeed, both Forrest and his aide briefly glanced Xoss's way when he stepped up.

To Forrest's unasked question, Soval replied, "My new secretary, as you are taking away one of my current. May he fetch you refreshment? I am told it is human custom to consume refreshments when discussing business."

"No, thank you, Ambassador," Forrest said. "Not while my people are dying in space."

"The position of my government is clear--"

"You told us the flight plan was safe."

"I merely said it was reasonably safe. Space exploration comes with myriad dangers for which even the most advanced of races cannot plan. If the risks distress you so, perhaps you should reassess your involvement with it."

"Lives are at stake," Forrest growled.

"_Could be_ at stake." Soval said. Neither the Vulcan homeworld nor any Vulcan ship has received a distress call. Until a call is received, it is against policy to initiate a rescue.

Forrest's hands tightened into fists. "I'm just asking you to send a ship and investigate. A few weeks' inconvenience on the chance that some of my people are still alive. Surely there's some spatial anomaly or star cluster nearby that you could study if it turns out I'm wrong."

"I was under the impression your people had staked some claim to that area of space," Soval said, an eyebrow raised.

"Soval, please..." Forrest faltered, and then his eyes lit up at the contents of a padd his aide handed him. "_Palmyra_ was attacked less than nine light years from Vulcan. If someone's attacking ships that close to you, you need to know."

The ambassador shook his head. "We cannot be certain your vessel was attacked. Did not your tactical officer report the area clear? A natural phenomenon could easily have caused the damage."

"You've seen the footage," Forrest insisted. "Erika said there were ships."

"And earlier she said there were none. How competent is your officer?"

Forrest ignored the jibe, and turned to T'Pol. "What about you? You're to be posted on _Enterprise_. Human emotions are powerful after the loss of life. All that grief and anger will be downright..." His eyes shifted back to Soval for a moment. "..._distressing_. Convince him and it'll be easier on you."

Xoss raised his brow in shock at the admiral's audacity. Trying to subvert the ambassador through a subordinate. T'Pol would not rise to the bait, would she? As Xoss watched, a flicker of emotion passed over her face. It was too brief and too subtle for any but a Vulcan to recognize. He scanned the faces of the other Vulcans, and neither gave indication they had seen anything amiss. Had Earth postings dulled their senses or worse accustomed them enough to emotional displays that they tolerated them even among Surak's children? He decided then to increase his nightly meditation time by fifteen percent and schedule extra time to maintain his Kolinahr disciplines for the duration of his stay.

"It is not my place," T'Pol said, "to question Ambassador Soval's decisions or those of my government."

Her voice was flat and emotionless, but her words suggested much to the trained listener. Either she disagreed with the ambassador's decision or she wanted it to sound that way. Interesting. Suggesting that she was on the side of the humans while officially maintaining the ambassador's position was smart. It was not exactly lying, but it was closer to it than any non-diplomat would allow. Diplomacy was among the most deceptive Vulcan occupations, second only to intelligence. Xoss experienced a flash of disappointment he quickly suppressed that he would not have further opportunity to study under T'Pol. He raised his opinion of her from competent to skilled.

Forrest muttered under his breath, and the Vulcans heard him plainly. Xoss recognized two of the words from a list of human expletives in his Earth orientation packet. Forrest gritted his teeth and raised his hands in the traditional Vulcan salute. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Ambassador. Live long and prosper."

"Peace and long life," Soval said and returned the salute.

Forrest turned toward the door and motioned for his aide to follow. Pausing before T'Pol, he said, "Get your affairs in order. Your services may be called upon sooner than planned."

When the door had closed, Xoss prepared to apologize for his tardiness. Though not strictly necessary, it was protocol. He did not get the opportunity.

Soval seated himself behind his desk and massaged his temples. "Speak your mind, T'Pol," he said.

She nodded and absently smoothed the folds of her robe. "The humans' request is not unreasonable, sir," she said. "We would take such precautions if _Palmyra _were our vessel.

"_If_ it were our vessel. It is not."

"We initiated first contact with the humans; it is our responsibility to guide their development."

"'To uplift them to the stars,'" Soval said.

She quirked an eyebrow.

"I read your mother's paper," he said. "They are not children, T'Pol. They must be allowed to make their own mistakes and progress at their own rate."

"And if that rate surpasses our own?"

_Was that hope in her voice?_

Soval took a breath. "So be it."

T'Pol rested a hand on the desk. "We could petition the High Command."

"I did as soon as I saw the footage. The petition was denied."

"By whom?" she said.

"By Dradox."

T'Pol staggered back as if she had been physically struck. Her next words were barely above a whisper, "My father?"

_TBC_


	5. 1E: Matthews, Reed, Sato

**Disclaimer:** See first chapter

**Cherryblossomjen**, glad you gave the story a chance. The first several updates taken together are something like a prologue. I was setting up not only the story, but the entire series. Subsequent chapters will be longer, and the scenes will shift less frequently.

Also, "bound to be interesting." Not sure if that was intentional, but heh, heh.

**Rigil**, a little longer and only a few day's wait this time. Give me a break, I'm also writing a novel. :)

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UESPA Command

San Francisco

3 April

22:16 UTC

"But, Greg, Haley hasn't taken her first steps yet. You promised you'd be here for Haley's first steps."

Greg Matthews lowered the volume on his vid-comm application. His wife was beautiful. He loved her. But damn, could she scream when she was ticked. "I know, Sweetie, but it's not like I have a choice."

"You always say that."

Being a Lieutenant Commander in UESPA meant extended assignments far from home, but this was his first such assignment as a married man. That it wasn't supposed to start for months was a fact that Katie would not let him forget. "And I always mean it. I can't help that _Enterprise_ is shipping out early."

"What about Justin's play?"

"Tape it. Send it to me over subspace."

"It isn't the same. The kids need their dad here, and I need my husband."

"Katie, please."

"Please what?"

He took a breath. "I don't want to spend our last week together fighting. Listen, I'll take off early tonight. We'll have a romantic dinner, just you and me."

Her face softened. "Guillermo's."

"You got it, babe."

"You won't cancel on me last minute, will you?"

"Cross my heart." At her expectant look, he swallowed his dignity and made the motion.

"All right," she said. "I love you, science boy."

"That's science _officer_, babe, and I love you too."

Ending the call, he brought up his departmental roster. He still had three positions to fill. Two would have been filled by officers currently serving on ships that would not now reach Earth in time for the rescheduled deployment. A third had opened up last week when a brilliant young woman resigned her commission without warning for a civilian job and its sizable pay increase. When Katie found out, she became incensed that Greg too hadn't taken a civilian job. One thing about his wife--she hadn't a manipulative bone in her body. She out and out told him what she wanted every time.

He opened the file that listed replacement candidates and mentally narrowed it down to the best prospects. An hour of calls further narrowed the list until he had four meetings scheduled. As his last call ended, he groaned aloud. One of the four had but a single opening in his schedule. Tonight.

Not wanting to see her reaction, he forewent use of the vid-comm and instead dialed his wife's personal communicator. If he were lucky, she'd have it switched off, and he wouldn't have to speak with her.

Lady Luck was a bitch.

"Katie, hon, bad news..."

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602 Club

San Francisco

4 April

06:23 UTC

Beer flowed, and inhibitions flowed away. Though a fine naval tradition and an enjoyable one, this pre-deployment party left Malcolm Reed a bit uneasy. Surrendering control to anything, be it wine, women, or whatever, sent a tremor of apprehension racing along his nerves that stayed with him long after he'd recovered his full faculties. This apprehension, mind you, was not enough to keep the rum from Reed's lips or his eyes off the backside of that delectable blonde waitress, but it did diminish his enjoyment of both.

Seated at a small table at the edge of the dance floor, he watched the dancers carefully. Normally the 602 Club catered almost exclusively to UESPA personnel, but tonight the Marines were out in full force. A few he recognized as members of Hayes's famous Maco squad. Reed had been pleased and slightly intimidated when he learned the Macos were assigned to _Enterprise_. For a time, Reed had considered enlisting in the Marines himself, following in Mum's footsteps rather than Dad's. But Mum had quashed that notion. _You're a big picture bloke, _she said, _a private who thinks like a general. Ship tactics is the path for you_. That path had brought him far. He was chief tactical officer and fourth in command of the best ship in the fleet, and all that while still only a lieutenant. Yet a part of him would always wonder what-if.

Reed kept an eye out for Hayes, planning to buy the man a drink if he were to show up. Judging by the behavior of his troops, though, it seemed unlikely he or any Marine officer was on site. His eyes fell on two troops in particular--Tudyk and Cole, a gunnery sergeant and a corporal, respectively. People who were just colleagues did not dance that closely. _Shameful, utterly shameful_.

With that thought, he turned away and set his mind to enjoying the so-called "end of the world" party. It was based on an ancient tradition, this getting stone dead drunk and rabble-rousing before a long deployment since you might never return, traceable all the way back to the Vikings. He'd actually looked up the Scandinavian word before his first one, and he and his mates shouted it at the top of their lungs before every shot. He tried to remember the word, but either the rum or the years had taken it away.

"Here's to tradition," he murmured and drained the last bit of alcohol from his glass. _Damn._ The thought of tradition brought to mind another obligation. He checked his wristwatch; he always wore one, finding it more convenient than his communicator's digital readout. Local time was 23:28 Saturday. The mental calculation to universal time came automatically: 06:28 Sunday. He had well over an hour to pilot his requisitioned shuttle pod to Manchester.

He'd missed yesterday's memorial service at the Anglican Cathedral his parents attended but promised he'd attend Morning Prayer as an apology. His family home was in Malaysia, but in this age of speed, merry old England was always a hop and a skip away--never mind the jump. It was pretty close to San Francisco too. Time enough for one more drink.

He tipped the bottle over his glass, and to his disappointment only a few drops came out. He'd let the evening get away from him. Might he be too buzzed to pilot? No sense risking it. His tactician's mind went to work as his eyes roved over the room. _Ah, perfect!_ A few tables over sat the solution to his problem: a pilot so enthralled by the female attention he was getting that he was still nursing his first beer. _Travis, my lad, you've just become my designated pilot._

No need to embarrass him, though. He retrieved his communicator from his pocket and prepared to page the Ensign he'd mentally ensnared and ask if he'd ever been to England when three things happened: First, he realized how eerily similar that question sounded to a pickup line he once used. Second, he remembered that Europe was on Summer Time; it was actually 7:28 in Manchester. Third, a tall redhead he knew oh so well sauntered his way.

A sly smile crossed her face as she set two glasses and a freshly uncorked bottle on the table. "My shift's over, Tiger, and the world's coming to an end. Got time to celebrate with me?"

Reed checked his watch. Could he reach the shuttle depot, fly to England, and hoof it to the Cathedral in less than seventeen minutes? Possibly, depending on how much convincing Travis required. Might be quite the challenge. He looked back at the redhead, noticed the delicate swell of her breast and the hint of cleavage peeking out of her shirt.

_Ah, well._ There was always Evensong.

Grinning, Reed said, "For you, Ruby, I have all the time in the world."

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São Paulo, Brazil

5 April

21:12 UTC

Sato Hoshi, Adjutant Professor of Sociolinguistics and UESPA Lieutenant, could parse "I am happy" in forty-seven languages, twelve of them non-Terran, but she could not honestly say it today.

"I hate to do this to you, Hoshi..."

_Hate? _She was fairly certain she hated Jonathan Archer and began calculating how many languages she could parse that in.

"...but I need you."

She'd had the resignation letter saved on a padd for months. That same padd currently rested powered down on the table between her and Jonathan--no, Captain Archer. Her plan had been to hand it over to him before he could speak, but he hadn't even looked at it when he arrived at her office that afternoon. Instead, he proposed an early dinner at a local café. A proposal that wasn't a proposal. An order couched in a request. Given in his captain's voice.

"I started my professorship a month ago."

"Teaching is important to you. I understand--"

"Important? This is the William Labov Institute, the best linguistics school on the planet. I wasn't even accepted here as a student."

"You have the best ear for language I've ever come across..."

_Acquainted with a lot of linguists, are you?_

"...and I'll need someone like you in the field."

"I don't belong in the field," Hoshi said. "I hate flying. I barely passed survival training. Hell, sir, I only enrolled in officer candidate school to improve my chances of getting _this_ job."

Archer laid a hand over hers, and she didn't immediately pull away. "Hoshi--"

"Besides, and forgive me for being blunt, but aren't you headed on a recovery mission. How does a linguist figure into this?"

"I don't plan on coming back."

That shocked her. Did he mean--no, that was absurd.

He must have sensed her confusion, for he quickly explained. "I mean I don't plan on coming back right away. There's no reason not to continue exploring once this mission is over. If necessary, we can convert a cargo bay into a temporary morgue."

"Captain, if I leave, I'll never get another chance."

He squeezed her hand. "See, Lieutenant, you're already calling me Captain. Be a shame to put that practice to waste." He paused, then added. "I need you, Hoshi. Earth needs you. Help us bring our people home. Help us honor their sacrifice."

_Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn._ The moment she found his message on her terminal, she knew she'd answer his call. Not because it came from him, but because it was expected of her. It was duty, and a Sato always answered duty no matter how inconvenient. She cursed herself.

_Pliable Hoshi  
Sato, who fears air travel,  
Heads now into space._

_Her eagerness to please is  
Always her own undoing._

She powered up the padd, and felt a hint of pleasure at the distress that crossed Archer's face. It was short-lived as she changed the addressee of her resignation letter from UESPA to the Institute, let loose an angry breath, and tapped Submit.

"All right, Captain. You have a sociolinguistics officer."

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_**End Prologue**_


	6. 2A: Tucker

_Life is just a passing moment  
On an never-ending trail  
Though my pathway wanders for awhile  
Someday my ship will sail_

_I will walk this road awhile  
I will walk it with a smile  
I will take it in my stride  
Someday I'll be satisfied_

--from "My Ship Will Sail" by Allen Reynolds, revised by Johnny Cash

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Engine Room

_Enterprise _

8 April

11:30 UTC

**Four Days Before Launch **

The gentle hum of the engine and the buzz of a half dozen conversations combined into a hypnotic thrumming that might have put Trip Tucker to sleep had he been listening to it. Instead, he filled his ears with the dulcet tones of Johnny Cash. _I will walk the road awhile, I will walk it with a smile._ He preferred Cash's rendition of the song to the Emmylou Harris version his mother always played, but the truth was Cash's bass-baritone spoke to Trip no matter the words. He allowed the song to finish before switching off his music player and stowing it along with its earphones in his pocket. He logged off his terminal and moved from behind his desk to lean in the doorway of his office and watch Lieutenant Clara Hess work.

He'd made a conscious effort these past days to hole up in his office while Hess was on duty. He needed her to get a feel for command, and she couldn't do that with him looking over her shoulder. There was no way of knowing how much time his duties as XO would require. Fleet manuals made it out to be a full time position, but the higher-ups insisted a department head could fill it with "minimal disruption to his or her other duties." (He took solace in the fact that manuals almost always exaggerated. He should know; he'd written a couple.) One thing was certain, though: the extra work meant his second would have to shoulder more than her fair share of responsibilities.

A better officer might replace Hess, but Trip hadn't the heart to do it. Before Archer saddled him with being XO--back when Trip was just Chief Engineer and quite happy with the arrangement, thank you very much--Hess had complemented his skills just fine. He was the theorist; she was the technician. Not that she was a slouch in the brains department; he just didn't expect he'd ever see her name attached to a journal article. He really needed a second who was more of a freethinker.

David Kelby would be a fine second, but then Kelby would be a fine chief. No, he and Kelby together would be a case of too many roosters in the hen house. Best avoid it. Hess would be fine after a few months, Trip reasoned. He'd assign her some supplemental readings to get her up to speed on the field. She'd be fine.

Thinking of chickens made Trip's stomach growl and reminded him that he hadn't eaten. Hmm. Would Marcus make chicken today? Knowing him, if anything it would be blackened chicken, or chicken gumbo, or something equally spicy. _Enterprise's_ chef told Trip he was expanding his repertoire, but a background in Cajun cooking was hard to shake. Especially for a man with a last name like De la Croix.

His mother was, not coincidentally, the same way. Trip was eight before Mom could prepare southern fried chicken to Dad's taste.

Trip checked his watch and groaned. It was Thursday. No meat today. All that fine Southern cuisine left his father with twin diagnoses of high cholesterol and high blood pressure. To avoid similar health problems, Trip had vowed to limit his meat consumption to two days a week: Tuesday and Saturday. Marcus was no help in that area. Neither was Archer--Trip wondered if the man ever ate a vegetable. The way he acted, you'd think the snaps on his plate were an inedible garnish.

He left word with a crewman that he'd be out for a while and headed for the mess. Along the way every officer or crewman he passed was studying a padd or engaged in avid discussion about shipboard business. Trip felt like an absolute lazy fool as he walked along hands in his pockets, returning their nods or occasional unnecessary salutes. He only needed a sweat-stained bandanna in his back pocket and a piece of straw to chew on to complete the picture. He chuckled at the thought and his mood brightened.

The mess hall was crowded, and since he didn't immediately spot an open seat, he slid behind the counter. Chef Marcus glanced up, fire in his eyes at the audacity of anyone setting foot in his kitchen, but seeing it was only Trip, he growled, "You got any engine grease on you, boy? No? Then wash up. Give me a hand."

Trip considered arguing but decided what-the-hell and complied. He hardly ever got the chance to cook anymore, and it wasn't as though he'd done any real work today. Minutes later he was frying sausage for jambalaya. Enjoying the smell too, even though he couldn't have any. Damn, why did cholesterol have to taste so good? Maybe just one link. No! _A link here, a link there, and a little white pill every day for the rest of your life._

"Say, Marcus, what's the vegetarian selection for today?"

"Does it look like I've had time to make two selections today? I just finished the last of breakfast when this crowd shows up and starts clamoring for lunch. Damned ship is launching in four days, half the crew's on board, and they ain't sent me none of my staff yet!"

"So...salad, rice...what?"

"Don't start with me."

Trip smiled. "We've got fifteen confirmed vegetarians on board. Plus the Vulcan. And they're _all_ vegetarian; leastwise every Vulcan I've ever met is."

"There's extra rice in the cupboard." He indicated it with his thumb. "Don't let the sausage burn while you get it."

"Aye, sir."

Trip and Marcus cooked for another hour, Marcus concentrating on his jambalaya and Trip frying rice with bell pepper, onion, and mushroom--an alternative that several diners settled on as the milder and thus more palatable dish. Most ate fast and returned to their duties as the absence of a full crew complement meant more work piled on fewer workers. This meant both the chef and his conscripted assistant were taking a much needed break and the room had thinned out considerably when _she_ walked through the door

Walked was too vulgar a word. Maybe it was the heat of the kitchen catching up with him, but to Trip she glided. Two-tenths of a meter shorter than he, with one of the shortest haircuts he'd ever seen on a female, she exuded confidence. It wasn't necessarily that he was attracted to her--he could barely tell the shape of her figure through those loose-fitting robes--but something about her demanded he take notice. And he did. Wait, robes?

She was the Vulcan liaison?

Oh, boy.

Trip cringed. As XO, he should have been with the captain to meet her at the docking ring. Less than a week on the job and he was already messing up. _Stellar start, Tucker. Way to uphold the family name. The kinfolk will be thrilled._ He began fumbling with his apron strings, figured now was as good a time to introduce himself as any. Then his hands dropped to his sides, forgetting their purpose, as her eyes made contact with his.

She maintained that contact all the while as she crossed the room--gliding, of course--and stood before him. Had she recognized him, known him perhaps from studying his file? She must have. Vulcans were thorough like that. She probably had the name and vital stats of every member of the crew memorized. Her mouth twitched. She was about to speak.

"Have you any Vulcan cuisine?" she said.

"Huh?" Why had she...? Oh, the apron. "I--"

"Or if not Vulcan, at least something vegetarian? Preferably not too spicy."

"Uh...yeah, we uh..." He couldn't think.

"Yes, ma'am," Marcus interjected. "We've got a couple of plates of fried rice in the stasis cooler. Right over there. Help yourself."

She nodded and turned.

"I'm Trip," Trip said, his voice returning along with his wits.

Her brow crinkled, and then smoothed into its normal placid expression. "Ah, that is your name." At his nod, she continued. "I am T'Pol. I am the liaison between your vessel and my government. It is agreeable to make your acquaintance...Trip." With a final tilt of her head, she walked away.

The whole exchange puzzled Trip until he noticed the apron's placement. It covered his name tag and rank insignia.

He felt a hand clap his shoulder.

"You know you're an idiot," Marcus said with a chuckle. "Wait till your momma hears about this."

Trip growled a reflexive "shut up" he didn't really mean. Reflecting on his first encounter with T'Pol of Vulcan, he couldn't help but grin.

_TBC_


	7. 2B: T'Pol

**cherryblossomjen**, the banter will be present, although different in subtle ways. I can't really enjoy a story unless there's good banter.

**Captain X**, keep in mind that the appearance of rustication may be just that--appearance. And it may have a purpose.

**2Distracted,** thank you.

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San Francisco Spaceport

12:10 UTC

T'Pol observed the human farewell rituals with the wariness of a field biologist. Curious at the extravagant displays but mindful to keep her distance, she seated herself at the far end of the sparsely filled departure lounge. Were these humans in competition against one another, she wondered. One mother would cry on her offspring's shoulder; another would cry louder. The first would respond by crying louder still. Then there were the mated pairs saying their good-byes. T'Pol could respect the emotions behind the displays, though they made her slightly queasy, but could not understand why a simple touch of the fingers would not do. She supposed touch held less significance for humans as, unlike Vulcans, comparatively few of them were telepathic to any great extent, but still...some of those movements of mouth and hand... A Vulcan couple _might_ show that depth of affection, but only behind securely locked doors.

Not all humans seemed so free with public displays. Lieutenant Commander Matthews's mate demonstrated great restraint. She had not so much as touched him in the fifteen minutes since her arrival, and though her two small children wept, her face remained impassive. Matthews had introduced himself to T'Pol earlier, rightly surmising her identity, and briefly engaged her in conversation because, as he put it, they were the only two with no one to see them off. He seemed agitated when he said this and surprised when he spotted his mate entering the lounge.

Neither Ambassador Soval nor any of his staff had come with T'Pol to "see her off." There had been no reason. Final instructions had been given to her at the compound, and transport for her luggage had already been arranged.

From beneath her robe, she drew her palm computer and established a secure connection with the Vulcan network. Waiting for her were messages from her cousin and a science student seeking an introduction to T'Les. But she'd received no word from her father. If he did not answer her repeated inquiries by week's end, she'd press for face-to-face contact via subspace. If he remained silent after that, he'd force her hand. She'd have to involve her mother.

When the boarding call was announced, T'Pol responded leisurely. She wished to limit her time in the packed shuttle as much as possible. Her nasal inhibitor injection was working adequately in the airy environs of the lounge, but the healers hadn't sufficient time to fine-tune her dosage before she left. And she refused to take a supplemental dose in front of the humans. Should she be called upon to explain, the truth would alienate them. And a lie, although less rude, would damage her credibility when discovered. With a Denobulan as ship's physician, T'Pol had no doubt the truth would be discovered. Nasal inhibitors were as routinely prescribed to females in the Vulcan diplomatic corps as cold medication was to humans. So, even if she requested her injections be kept confidential, he'd most likely forget and let the truth slip out. Denobulans were known as an overly talkative race.

She wondered why the captain had chosen a Denobulan as ship's physician. Certainly, a human physician would have a more accurate understanding of his species' physiology. On the other hand, an alien would have a better knowledge of non-Terran diseases--a good asset for a ship going where no human ship had gone before. A logical choice, then. Good. Given the Denobulan penchant for gregariousness and the human tendency to base decisions on "gut feeling," she had thought it possible that the captain simply "liked" the man. That there was logic in the decision allayed her concerns.

There were only two seats open when T'Pol boarded the shuttle--one by Matthews and another by a woman whose rank and name tags identified her as "Corporal A. Cole." Emotions rolled off Matthews in torrents, and the dark look on his face revealed his mood well enough that even the non-telepaths avoided him. T'Pol chose the seat by the Corporal.

"Amanda," she said, offering a hand.

T'Pol steadied herself and accepted the hand. As whenever she made skin contact with an unordered mind, emotion assaulted her. Like two flames joining into a flame bigger than both, her emotions and Amanda Cole's coupled and intensified. Since Amanda barely registered on the telepathic scale, the excess emotion flooded into T'Pol. She felt unadulterated lust, not directed at her exactly and not purely sexual either, but a general lust for life, a desire for new experience. And for the moment it felt right. T'Pol desired--demanded all life offered. All the sex. All the violence. To hold a gun in her hands and feel it jerk when she squeezed the trigger. The savage thrill of the kill saturating, but not sating her. To choose a bed partner purely for his beauty and virility, gripping him tightly between her...Then her training took over. She excised the emotion from her mind--an excruciatingly painful procedure--and concentrated it at her hand, willing it to remain there, denying it access to her mind. Three seconds after the handshake began, it ended.

"T'Pol," she said simply.

"Pleasure to meet you," Amanda said.

"Indeed."

"So," Amanda said, "you're the reason we're headed out early."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"The Vulcans, I mean. Not you personally, T'Pel."

"T'Pol."

"Let me ask you, why didn't you guys send out a rescue ship?"

A male voice came from a few rows back. "Knock it off, Cole."

"It could have been any one of us out there, Tudyk. We deserve an explanation from our ambassador."

Tudyk growled "You're just being a bit--"

"Everyone, drop it." The command came from Matthews, the senior officer on board, and was instantly obeyed despite a bit of grumbling. Matthews cast T'Pol a look she assumed was meant to be sympathetic: a half smile and a shrug. She nodded.

A few minutes after takeoff the low buzz of conversation had returned to fill the cabin, and T'Pol believed she could safely hold a conversation without attracting attention. "I am not an ambassador."

"What?"

"You called me an ambassador. I do not possess that title. I am a diplomatic liaison."

"Whoopee for you."

T'Pol almost inquired about that peculiar expression but thought better of it. "I do not have an answer for you," she whispered. This would, if she knew human behavior as well as she thought she did, encourage Amanda to whisper as well. She was right.

"What do you mean?

"Corporal, you asked me why my people did not send a rescue ship. The truth is, I do not know. But I have made several inquiries."

"Fat lot of good that does us," Amanda sneered. "That's the classic political non-answer. We'll get back to you later."

"It is the only answer I have to give. I am sorry."

Amanda's eyes opened wide, and T'Pol wondered if she were taken ill.

"Did you just apologize?" Amanda said, then, "You did. I didn't know you people did that."

T'Pol blinked. She hadn't been aware her people did that either. Apology served no useful purpose in Vulcan society. If both sides of a disagreement knew who was at fault, admitting it was unnecessary. But then T'Pol wasn't interacting with a Vulcan. Humans apologized to one another quite often, even when no offense had been committed. It was, one might argue, a vital component of human interpersonal communication, and as such a useful diplomatic tool. She would remember that fact.

The rest of the eighteen minute flight passed in silence between the two women, though with noticeably less tension. Towards the end, T'Pol's nasal inhibitor lost some of its potency, but she shifted focus to her other senses and endured. Before departing through the docking ring, Amanda smiled and punched T'Pol in the arm. Only her accompanying words saved her a violent reprisal. "See you around, T'Pal."

_Enterprise's _air cycling systems were a welcome improvement over the shuttle's, and brought swift relief to T'Pol's nasal problems. An unpleasant scent mingled with the ship's recycled air, and she had a tough time not frowning. She directed her senses toward the lieutenant who stood at rigid attention before her. Elevated heart rate, increased--ugh--sweat production, repeated swallowing. For reasons she had been unable to pinpoint sixty-two point five percent of human males she met displayed these symptoms upon first meeting her. Was this perhaps an undocumented allergic reaction to something in Vulcan body chemistry? Should she alert the doctor? No, none of the males thus affected had suffered any noticeable harm. The irritant, if it existed in her, most soon acclimated to. Those that could not, did not allow it to become a distraction.

"Greetings, Subcommander. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed at your service. Chief Tactical Officer and Fourth in command of this vessel. I'm to show you to your quarters." He raised his arm to a position perpendicular to his chest and bent at the elbow. "This way if you please."

T'Pol matched his curious arm position, held the salute for a few moments, and then hefted her bag to her shoulder. "I no longer hold military rank, Lieutenant. You may refer to be by name or as simply Consul. The term is accurate enough. "

Reed's expression fell, and he lowered his arm. "Right, well, this way then,"

Her quarters were two decks down and farther from the docking ring than she would have preferred. With Reed's assistance, she registered her palm print with the door lock. He offered to help her set up the environmental controls since the engineers had yet to install the Vulcan interface. She declined the offer both because she had already familiarized herself with _Enterprise's_ computer system and because Reed's odor grew more pungent the closer he stepped to her quarters.

"It was my understanding that Captain Archer was to meet me at the docking ring," T'Pol said.

"That was the plan. Unfortunately, ship's business demanded his attention. He and Commander Tucker will meet you in the ready room at 13:40. In the meanwhile, the captain suggests you acclimate yourself to your new quarters and perhaps get a bite in the dining hall." Reed smiled and his chest expanded. His odor spiked. "I could show you the way if you'd like."

She ground her teeth. "That will not be necessary, Mr. Reed. I will find my own way."

"Of course," he said. "If that's all..."

T'Pol fled inside and shut the door. This took the edge off the smell, but her stomach would not settle until she felt the hypospray at her neck. Moments later, her sense of smell all but disappeared. The spray had the opposite effect on her appetite, though, and she thought it best to take the captain's advice. The computer terminal at the desk--her desk--gave her the location of the dining hall, and after checking the Vulcan network for messages and once again finding nothing from her father, she made her way there.

Each crewman she passed made her aware of just how alone she would be on this mission. Given another six months she or Ambassador Soval would likely have been able to negotiate passage for a Vulcan assistant. It was fruitless and illogical to dwell on lost opportunities, so she did not.

She ate lightly and quickly, finishing only half of the fried rice on her plate, but drinking two glasses of green tea. The meal, her first exposure to human cuisine in more than a decade, was quite palatable. She decided to thank the chef who had suggested the dish--if apologizing was a useful diplomatic tool, it followed that giving thanks would also be--but discovered he was busy. His assistant, then. Ah, but Trip was nowhere to be found. She would need to conduct her experiment with gratitude later.

Returning to her quarters, T'Pol slipped into a light meditative trance to prepare for her meeting with the captain. A chirp brought to her senses before she had completed all but the initial exercises. It had come from a panel on the wall near her door. She stood to investigate, and the panel chirped again, followed by a voice: "Consul T'Pol, the captain has an opening in his schedule. You may report to his ready room now."

T'Pol depressed the answer button on the comm panel. "Acknowledged. I will be there shortly." She checked the digital readout on the panel. It was a convenient location for a clock, she thought.

Her eyebrow twitched.

13:07. More than half an hour early.

She massaged her temples. No doubt life on this ship would regularly disrupt her meditation. It mattered not. She was of Vulcan stock. She would adapt. That was her purpose for being on this ship in the first place. So far, no Vulcan had managed to handle longer than a three-month posting aboard a human ship. If she could last six months, nine, a full year, then she could prove to the Diplomatic Corps that she could survive anywhere. Adjusting her meditation schedule was a small price to pay for that.

_TBC_


	8. 2C: Archer, Tucker

Ready Room

_Enterprise_

13:10 UTC

"Be straight with me," Archer said, "How bad is he?"

The doctor pretended to adjust his vidcomm settings. "We should have this conversation in person."

"Doctor, I've spent half my life in space. I'm used to getting bad news over the phone."

"All right, if you're certain. It's not the worst bout I've seen him face, but it's serious. At this stage, everything is serious. He doesn't have much time left."

A pause and then, "Will he be able to attend the launch?"

"Clarke's Disease is debilitating, Jonathan. I'm frankly surprised your father has maintained an active lifestyle this long."

"Will he be able to attend?"

"It might kill him."

Archer frowned. "Missing it will kill him. Strap him to a gurney if you have to, Doc, but get him there. He'll thank you for it. So will I."

"I'll do what I can." The doctor reached forward to sever the connection. A word from Archer stopped him.

"Doc."

"Hmm?"

"Once again, thanks...for giving up your seat. I won't forget the sacrifice you made for my family."

The doctor shrugged. "Your father is an important man. His health and comfort are paramount. And Phlox is a fine physician. Unorthodox by our standards, but a fine physician. He'll treat your crew well."

"And you're sure he's qualified to treat humans?"

"Humans, Vulcans, Tellarites, Andorians, and a dozen other species you've never heard of. Now, I really must check in on Henry. Nurse Adams is with him, but you know how much those two dislike one another."

"I'm sure I'll hear all about it when Dad calls. Later, Doc."

As the call ended, the doctor's image faded and was replaced by the Agency's logo until the vidcomm switched off due to inactivity. Archer stood and moved to the comm panel on the wall. "Yeoman, I've concluded my business early. Contact..." What was her name again? "Contact the Vulcan. Tell her to come to the ready room ASAP."

"Aye, sir."

The Vulcan arrived promptly and Archer offered her a seat before remembering the only available one was the bunk in the corner. (He'd need to speak to the quartermaster about getting more chairs.) She politely declined and remained at rigid attention, hands clasped behind her, while surreptitiously giving the room a once over. What was she looking for? "Something the matter, Consul?"

"Should not your first officer be present?"

"He's on his way." _At least he would be if I'd remembered to call him._ Archer punched the comm. "Yeoman, see what's keeping Commander Tucker." He turned back to his terminal and brought up the personnel files. No way was he admitting he couldn't remember her name. Unfortunately the personnel files were organized alphabetically. By name. A few keystrokes initiated a keyword search for "vulcan" which returned twelve documents. He found the one with the shortest header. "So, I've reviewed your file...T'Pol. It says here you were on the mission that made first contact with the Endani." Archer smiled. "I wonder if Phlox could treat _them_."

"It is unlikely," T'Pol said. "The Endani do not ordinarily discuss their biology with outsiders."

"Hmm? Oh, I was talking to myself."

"Then I was mistaken."

"You were quite young then. And already in the diplomatic corps?"

"I am still quite young, Captain," T'Pol said, "and I had not yet joined the diplomatic corps. I was stationed aboard the Teltok, completing my compensatory military service."

"Tell me about it."

"Very well. The Teltok was en route to repair a malfunctioning probe when sensors detected a warp signature. Following standard procedure, we altered course to investigate and found a civilization that had recently broken the warp barrier. When it was deemed appropriate, we initiated first contact."

"Must have been exciting," Archer said. "Setting foot on a world your kind had never been before."

"I remained on the lander."

Archer skimmed over the file. "You were on the ground eighteen days. You didn't go out once during that whole time."

"My duties were on the lander," T'Pol said. Noticing Archer's frown, she amended her statement. "However, I observed the video feed from the exterior cameras whenever duty permitted. The captain's interactions with the natives were quite instructional."

"So it piqued your interest in diplomacy."

T'Pol inhaled slowly. "The term 'pique' implies an emotional response. It would be more accurate to say that the incident was among those that contributed to my interest in the field."

"Of course," Archer held up his hands in apology.

"Captain, I trust you will not take offense if I inquire as to the point of this line of questioning."

"No offense taken, T'Pol," Archer said. "This is a large ship by Earth standards, with a large crew, but it's a ship of exploration. Meaning we have an extensive science department. Because of the ship's size, we have the biggest engineering crew in the fleet. And the military contingent takes up a fair amount of space. So, in some areas--mainly culture and linguistics--I'm short-staffed, which is why I'll be relying on my most experienced crew to take up the slack."

"You wish for me to help 'take up' this 'slack.'"

"I'm assigning you to Lieutenant Sato, the head of our sociolinguistics department." Archer retrieved a padd from his desk drawer and presented it to T'Pol. "_Enterprise_ will not shy away from first contacts as long as I'm captain, and I don't like the idea of going in blind. I'd like you to aid Sato in drafting a set of first contact protocols. Don't be afraid--don't hesitate to voice your opinions, but final say is hers. I would consider it an act of good will between our peoples if you would agree to help."

T'Pol accepted the padd and tucked in under an arm. "I will."

"Good. Well, then, glad to have you aboard, T'Pol" Archer said, then added. "Sorry your staff couldn't join you, but you know how these things go."

T'Pol had started to respond when the door opened with a whoosh, revealing a young man with sandy blonde hair that both she and the captain instantly recognized.

"Sorry, sir. Had a little problem with a plasma coil." He fixed a wry gaze on Archer. "Must have lost track of time and...missed our appointment."

"Quite all right, Commander." Archer returned with a gaze of his own. "This is Consul T'Pol, our Vulcan liaison. Consul, may I present my second in command and the best chief engineer in the quadrant, Charles Tucker the third. We call him--"

"Trip," she said.

Archer blinked. He was no expert on vocal inflection, but he had noted that the pitch of T'Pol's voice hadn't changed once during their conversation. He thought it a pity because she had such a nice voice. Now, he could swear she sounded almost surprised.

"T'Pol, pleasure." Trip offered a hand.

She stared dumbly at him and did nothing. When it finally registered and she raised her hand, he was lowering his. He brought his back up, but by then she had lowered hers. He dropped his hand to the side and clapped his thigh.

Trip grinned. "We'll try that again later."

"You two know each other?" Archer said.

"We met in passing," Trip explained. "Need anything from me, Captain? If not, the best _Assistant__CHENG_ in the fleet needs relieving for her lunch break."

Archer shook his head. "Just wanted to introduce you and T'Pol. How about dinner tonight, 17:30? You too, T'Pol. We can talk shop while we dine."

"Sounds good, sir. See you then." He nodded to T'Pol, said "Consul," and hit the door release.

"Commander, I'll walk with you," she said, and then to Archer, "if that is all, Captain."

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Trip crossed the bridge, and T'Pol followed. _Ladies first_, he thought and waited in silence for her to speak her peace. Together they boarded the lift, and only when the doors closed and the lift began its downward journey did she comply with his unvoiced request.

"I was in error this afternoon, Commander. I should not have assumed you were merely a steward."

"Nothing wrong with being a steward" Trip said.

"It was not my intention to imply that there was."

"Course not. How was the rice by the way?"

"It was palatable," T'Pol said. "The red fruit--"

"Bell peppers."

"I had not eaten them before. Their inclusion complemented the other flavors. It was a well thought-out recipe."

"Careful where you're slinging those compliments," Trip said. "I might get a swelled head."

T'Pol tilted her head to get a better view of his. "Are you injured? Do you need to go to sickbay?"

"I'm fine, T'Pol. Glad you liked the rice. I don't get a chance to cook very often. It's good to know I haven't lost the touch."

"I am curious," T'Pol said, "how a starship officer can be expected to fulfill three jobs and be effective at any of them. Your captain must believe your abilities to be exceptional."

The commander laughed. "Trip Tucker: jack of all trades, chief cook and bottle washer." The doors to the lift opened and Trip stepped out, motioning for T'Pol to follow. "I don't work in the galley. Most of our kitchen staff hasn't arrived yet, so I was helping out today."

"Were there not junior crewmen who could have done so?" T'Pol said. "Where are we going?"

"Engine Room. Marcus--he's our chef--won't allow anyone in his kitchen he hasn't personally trained." Trip stopped before a thick door and punched an eight digit sequence into a keypad lock, not bothering to hide it from T'Pol. A green light signaled acceptance of the code, and Trip depressed a lever and opened the door. Once inside, he directed T'Pol to his office while he sought out his second. Spotting her, he said, "Clara, take thirty. I've got things covered here."

Entering his office, he found T'Pol seated straight-backed in the chair in front of his desk. Her position confirmed what he had only suspected before: she had a great figure. Damn, that was inconvenient.

Settling into his own chair, Trip continued. "Marcus is my uncle. He and my mom had a restaurant together in New Orleans. I worked there a few summers during grad school. Il était grand devait gagner l'argent. Took my mind off warp equations and dissertations for a while, anyway."

"You speak French, Mr. Tucker?"

"Oui, je parle français, ma chéri."

T'Pol quirked an eyebrow at his use of a sobriquet. "Peut-être vous souhaiteriez apprendre une langue provocante, Vulcan."

A wide grin spread across Trip's face. "Le pensez-vous pourriez-vous faciliter des relations entre nos espèces?"

"Il pourrait."

"Your accent could use a little work, but not bad. You're full of surprises, Consul T'Pol of Vulcan," Trip said with a wink. "I'll have to keep my eye on you." _My God, man, you just winked at a Vulcan. She could break you in half if the rumors are true, and you just winked at her._ A search of her face suggested she didn't seem appalled. _No appall on T'Pol, heh_. Her eyebrow was raised, but that seemed to be her catch-all facial expression. He'd seen it ten or twelve times this afternoon, but hadn't yet gotten a read on its precise meaning.

"Indeed," she said.

"Well, T'Pol, I'd love to chat with you all afternoon--and maybe we should sometime--but I wasn't yanking the captain's chain. I have plenty of work to do if this ship's to launch on schedule." He stood and, in response to his gentleman's training kicking in, offered a hand to help her to her feet.

Tentatively, she reached for his hand, but it dropped to his side when the sound of a knock at his door drew his attention and he turned away.

"Chief."

"Rostov?"

"I could really use a hand, sir."

Be there in a minute, Ensign."

When Trip turned back, he found T'Pol on her feet beside him, hands clasped at the small of her back.

"Until dinner, Commander," she said, and with a nod moved briskly for the door to let herself out.

Trip stood in his office doorway for a moment, pondering, as he watched her go. A portion of one of his walls was inset with adjustable opacity glass. When the glass was at its most opaque--like it was now--the interior side was semi-reflective. While his back had been turned, he'd caught T'Pol's reflection as she opened and closed her left eye rapidly and then several times more at a slower pace. _Guess I'm a bad influence._

Trip found Rostov kneeling in front of an open panel and joined him. "These circuits are shot," Trip said. "We'll have to replace them."

"How long will that take?"

"Three hours, four maybe." He flagged down a junior crewman. "Dexter, head to storage locker A-15. We should have three boxes of M-2002s. Get them back here ASAP. If we're out, bum them off WEPS." Back to Rostov. "All right, Ensign, let's get started."

Minutes later and without preamble, Rostov said, "Sir, do Vulcans have tics?"

"Blood sucking parasites?"

"No, sir. Facial tics," he said, and then lower as if to himself, "That has to be it. The alternative is unthinkable."

Trip had a good idea where this was going. Best play along. "Keep talking, Ensign. You've got me interested."

"You'll think I'm crazy, sir."

"Already do."

"It's the Vulcan liaison. When she was in your office, I could've sworn she winked at me. Several times, in fact."

"You're right, Ensign," Trip said.

"Sir?"

"You are crazy. Now get back to work."

"Chief, you're not going to believe this, but I could swear the Vulcan winked at me."

Do Vulcans have ticks?

Blood sucking parasites?

No, facial ticks. That has to be it. The other possibility is unthinkable.

"Get back to work."

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**End Chapter One**

Hate it, like it, can barely tolerate it? Let me know with a review. Thanks.


	9. 3A: Reed, Sato, Tucker

**BRM**, I added the French speaking angle because I heard Connor Trinneer speaks it. Were I a producer with access to an actor with such a skill, I'd utilize it at least once.

**Rigil**, Agreed on the language issue. I a Southerner myself, though not a Floridian. I don't speak French, but like many U.S. students, I studied language in high school (Spanish) and college (Greek). And with a Cajun mother, as I've provided him with in this story, Tucker speaking French is actually quite feasible.

**Captain X**, Dinner will be served shortly. Proceed to Archer's table at your convenience.

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Mess Hall

_Enterprise_

9 April

07:10 UTC

**Three Days Before Launch**

His service record left no doubt that Major Jeremy Hayes was a young man, stated without equivocation in fact that he was just shy of his thirty-seventh birthday. Despite that, for some reason or another Malcolm Reed still expected someone older. Older of spirit perhaps, a battle hardened war hero, or the nearest equivalent for a society that hadn't faced full scale war in nearly a century. Hayes appeared to be a by-the-book soldier, the no-nonsense type the on-duty Reed preferred. Still, he couldn't help being disappointed, and he wasn't sure why.

"Eat up, Lieutenant. Busy day ahead." Hayes set his fork down with finality and downed his third glass of water.

Reed nodded absently, finished his juice and stood, leaving his eggs barely touched. "I'll make up for it at lunch."

"We're working through lunch. Grab a muffin, let's go."

Reed gathered his tray and the Major's to deposit in the reclamation area. There he found Commander Tucker doing the same with a pair of his own. The biting comment that came to Reed's mind, he suppressed. _Excellent selection today, sir. What will you prepare for dinner?_ When they'd briefly met months ago, the two had gotten along well despite obvious cultural differences and Tucker's disregard of all but the most basic of military protocol. But he honored the chain of command, and that counted for something in Reed's reckoning. As fellow department heads, they might have developed a friendship on _Enterprise_, but since Tucker's assignment to XO, that simply wasn't feasible.

"Commander," he said.

"Morning, Lieutenant," Tucker returned. "Let me answer the question before you ask it: No, I did not cook breakfast this morning. No, I won't be cooking lunch. And I'm pretty certain I won't be cooking dinner either. Honestly, you help out once, and you're persecuted for life."

Reed blinked. _Was Tucker prescient?_ Ever so subtly, he took a step back. "I'd hardly call one day life, sir."

"Don't start with me. It's not even eight o'clock, and three people have already asked that damn question."

_Ah, not prescient. Of course, not. What was I thinking?_ "I assure you, sir, if I'd mentioned yesterday's incident, it would have been to compliment you." _Oh, hell, why not?_ "It was..." and at this he allowed the barest hint of a smile to curl his lip "...jolly, jolly good."

Tucker grinned, said "Aw, shucks, Loo-tenant. Yer embarassin' me."

"Good day, sir."

"Good day, Lieutenant."

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Sato's Office

Linguistics

8:20 UTC

As a diversion, Sato Hoshi created curse words and exchanged them anonymously with other linguists on the net. BasilBernstein001 has posted a new list earlier this morning using Denobulan cognate stems. Impressive, but Hoshi's best results combined Anglo Saxon with ancient Vulcan.

She had gone through her entire arsenal during the past hour.

Six years spent building a first rate linguistic library all for naught because the computer either refused to accept her files or displayed them incorrectly! Propriety file extensions, amateurish fonts without the proper diacritical marks--the computer wasn't even set up to read right to left. Would she have to work the entire mission using only her padd? "Motherf--"

Her doorbell chimed.

A breath, deep and cleansing. A second. "Come in."

The door slid open, and in stepped the Vulcan liaison. _Excellent._ Hoshi raised her left hand and with a practiced ease split the fingers into a V. " Dif-tor heh smusma, fosh-dutar T'Pol."

She reciprocated. "Sochya eh dif. Lieutenant Sato, I presume."

"You presume correctly." Hoshi wore a dark pantsuit, having not yet received her uniforms from the quartermaster. "Sit. To what do I owe...this visit?" She almost said "the pleasure of this visit," but caught herself.

"Captain Archer has requested that I assist you in drafting this vessel's first contact protocols," T'Pol said. "I am here in fulfillment of that request."

"First contact, first contact..." Hoshi activated her terminal's messenger program. By default, messages from command level staff were anchored to the top of the message pane and sorted by rank. This left the captain's messages right under a single congratulatory missive from an Admiral. She deleted it. "First contact..." Half a dozen of the captain's were marked with the header "ORDERS:" To her irritation, one was marked "ODRERS:"

_Ah, here we are._ _Issued yesterday._ "I need general first contact protocols on my desk before we launch. Nothing too specific. Cover the basics. Our Vulcan has experience in the area. (Search the database for "Endani.") I'm sending her to help."

"All right, T'Pol," Hoshi said. "Let's get started.

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Engine Room

8:22 UTC

Once they were underway, Trip had Hess scheduled for a shift that intersected his own by two hours. Today, though, he had her on the early shift with him. At breakfast, she'd had the audacity to tease him about his cooking. He chalked it up to weariness from last night's emergency recalibration of the circuitry in G section; she'd apologized...but the cheek on that girl!

Last night's repair session prevented his attending the captain's table. He had urged Jon to proceed with dinner and suggested Commander Matthews as his replacement. The scuttlebutt from Marcus was that the Captain made an appearance at dinner, but exited within ten minutes, taking his food to go and leaving T'Pol and Matthews alone for the rest of the meal, which all told lasted an additional five. Trip would have to reschedule the dinner for later this week. Tomorrow night perhaps. He would see to it that T'Pol received a proper welcome. XO responsibilities and all.

That was the only reason. T'Pol could be married for all he knew--hell, she might have kids. He slid behind his desk and tried very hard to convince himself that was the only reason. _Yeah, right._ He opened her personnel file, found a list of close family members: Dradox, T'Les, T'Pau. A husband and two daughters, perhaps. Were any of those names even male? Why didn't the file specify which--?

A chime and the door opened.

_Oh hell._

"Hiya, Chuckles."

"Amanda."

She made certain the door was shut before she said, "Long time no see, lover."

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Linguistics

11:00 UTC

For longer than two back-to-back Tuesday/Thursday classes, Hoshi took notes as T'Pol, from memory, summarized Vulcan first contact protocol. When at last the linguist had all she could take, she held up a hand. "That's enough for now." She stared at her terminal, at rules upon rules upon rules, eighteen pages in all with far more detail than Archer had requested. She would need to rework much of it to suit human temperament and the goals of the Terran space program, and Hoshi had a few thoughts she'd like to inject as well. The "send in a probe first" approach she liked, and she suspected UESPA would as well. The expense would be a drawback though.

Hoshi leaned back in her chair, cracked her neck, stretched her back. Then stood and discarded her blazer. "Thirsty? I have chamomile tea and papaya juice. The beverage dispensers in these offices are only big enough for two selections."

"Tea would be acceptable."

She set a glass in front of T'Pol and took a sip from her own. "So, tell me about yourself."

T'Pol hesitated a moment.

The pause was significant. A reluctance to reveal information. Was it personal information she did not wish to reveal or professional. Maybe--_no, draw no conclusions until you have more information._

"Following my education," T'Pol said, "I served in the Vulcan Defense Force for the term required of all able-bodied Vulcans."

"How long is that?"

Another pause. _Interesting._

"Twenty years. I rose to the rank of Subcommander before my term expired."

"You chose not to reenlist."

"I...chose not to."

_Careful not to push too hard._ "Were you eligible?" _Why did I ask that?_

"Ot-lan, ken-tor kominh bolau kup-tar-tor awek faik--"

_Too far. If she's rattled enough to slip into her native language, definitely too far._ "I apologize, Consul." _Get her to speak English again. You could learn more if she spoke Vulcan, but afterwards she would shut off permanently. _"My training sometimes leads me to probe too deeply, even in friendly conversation. I meant no offense." _Direct the conversation elsewhere._ "My education is primarily in sociolinguistics and pragmatics. Are you familiar with the fiends?"

T'Pol said, "I am not."

"It means I am very good at discerning the meaning behind spoken words." At T'Pol's raised eyebrow, Hoshi amended, "It works best of course when the speaker is using his native language. I could tell you, for instance, that our first officer is less stereotypically Southern than he would like us to believe."

"He is being deceptive, then?"

"Deceptive is too strong a word." Hoshi drained the last of the tea from her cup. It needed more sugar. "I've no doubt that Commander Tucker is from the South. Pragmatics tells me so. It's next to impossible to hide all traces of that accent from a trained ear, and he's not even trying. In fact, his accent is too pronounced, as if at one point he trained himself to speak without the accent and now he's faking it." She set the cup down. "But why? What societal pressures or expectations is he following--or challenging? Sociolinguistics will answer that. I could share my findings...if you're interested."

"That would be most inappropriate."

"Perhaps," Hoshi said. "Still if you change your mind..."

"I will not."

"Back to work then."

_TBC_


	10. 3B: Tucker, Hayes, Matthews, Archer

The situation stands: Lt. Reed is designated fourth-in-command of _Enterprise_. The on-board military contingent is separate from the chain of command; thus, while Hayes is of a higher rank than Reed, neither is directly under the command of the other. I suppose this could prove problematic should Reed's three senior officers ever become simultaneously incapacitated, but the tension inherent in the question of who should take command in that situation--Reed or Hayes--is too good to pass up. To explain day-to-day operations, how about a Trek reference point? Think of Worf's duties aboard the 1701-D split into two: Reed is Weapons and Tactical officer for ship-to-ship combat (Worf's bridge duties), whereas Hayes is in charge of hand-to-hand fighting (Worf's chief of security duties, a combination of military police and infantry roles). On some level, Reed still wishes he'd become a Marine and might occasionally insert himself into situations where his authority does not rightfully extend.

If I were writing this as a novel rather than serialized fiction, I'd probably revise the concept during rewrites. Hayes (or another character) would be recast as a lower ranking officer, or perhaps an enlisted man. But this would affect how Reed conceptualizes the Hayes character, in this story, as a reflection of who he might have been, perhaps should have been. For that Hayes must have a higher rank. (Thinks Reed, had I followed this route, I could have been _more_.)

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Engine Room

08:23 UTC

"Are you surprised to see me?" Amanda said. "Shouldn't the XO--congrats by the way. Shouldn't you know who's stationed on your ship?"

"I didn't think to check the crew manifest for old girlfriends."

"Girlfriend?"

"You know what I mean."

"I know what you wanted."

"Amanda..." Trip's eyes traveled to her chest. "_Corporal_ Cole--"

She thrust out her chest. "What are you looking at, as if I didn't know?"

"Y-Your rank patch. I see you haven't been promoted yet. Wonder why."

"You're one to talk about promotions. Think they'll let you keep that third pop solid this time?"

Trip exhaled loudly. "Why are you here, Corporal?"

"Maybe I missed our verbal foreplay."

"Cole--"

"Or maybe Major Hayes sent me here to present a requisition list to the XO."

Trip looked her up and down. "You don't have a padd."

"I said 'maybe.'" From her pocket, she pulled a device roughly half the size of a padd and tossed it to him. "Marines use these now. I'll need it back after you've downloaded the data."

Trip located the data port, plugged it into his terminal, nodded. "Why send you? Does he know--does anybody on board know about us?"

"I don't kiss and tell," she said. "Thumb print sign if you approve."

"You're not exactly known for your discretion." He pressed his thumb onto the screen and tossed the mini-padd back.

"I promise I won't ruin your career, Chuckles, and I'm not looking to rekindle anything. Though you have to admit those two weeks in Key Largo we sizzled. The week after you graduated OCS too. And the weekend before the Andrew Cunningham shipped out." She laughed. "Relax. I'm just busting your balls. My aunt says hello, by the way."

"Yeah, tell her hey."

"Will do." The mirth vanished from Amanda's face as she struck a rigid pose, hand rising to her brow in salute. "If that will be all, Commander."

"That'll be all." A pause. "Oh, dismissed."

He watched her leave, the picture of military sharpness, and realized with more than a little annoyance he had no idea what he had just signed. His eyes scanned the data he had downloaded. "Oh hell. Cole!" He set off in pursuit.

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Weapons

08:29

Major Hayes flipped open his Agency-issued communicator. The Marine earpieces were easily enough integrated into the onboard comm system, but the brass were dragging their heels approving them. "Hayes," the major said.

"We're a go, sir."

"Acknowledged, Corporal. Good job."

Correction: the earpieces had just been approved courtesy of Commander Tucker. The earpieces, and a few other things.

"What did she mean by that, sir? What's a go?" The voice was Lieutenant Reed's. He was able to ask his question because he'd heard the call over the major's communicator. Damn things were set to speaker function automatically.

Hayes dropped the communicator and before it struck the deck his fist struck Reed on the chin. Reed crumpled, and Hayes knelt to check his vitals. "Tour's over, Lieutenant." Hayes retrieved an earpiece from his pocket, slipped it over his ear, and tapped it to activate it. He heard static until the connection had been established. "All teams, get into position." _Apes won't know what hit them._

He stood and was checking his sidearm when he felt a hand at his ankle. The Brit had more fight than he credited him with. _Don't waste time with a retort, EllTee. Just strike._

"Already?" Reed said. "A pity. We were coming to the best part."

At least that was what Hayes assumed Reed would have said. A dart from Hayes's gun rendered the lieutenant unconscious before he could complete his statement. Hayes flipped Reed over and tied his hands with a plastic cord. Recalling a favored quote, Hayes said. "I do not envy you the headache you will have when you wake. Sleep well and dream of large women." Then he chambered another round.

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Bridge

08:31

To test short-range sensors, Lieutenant Commander Matthews directed them toward Manhattan, Montana, a small town that because of its proximity to Bozeman benefited from that city's sophisticated sensor cloak. It also happened to be his wife's hometown and current location since she'd taken the kids there for an extended visit with her parents. Greg didn't expect he could detect their house from spacedock. Still he had to direct the sensors somewhere, and getting through that cloak was a challenge.

That challenge would have to wait.

Greg's screen went black. Judging by the murmurs coming from the other bridge stations, his wasn't the only screen down. "Let's get a repair crew up here. Yeoman, contact..." His voice trailed off. The blank screen was no loner blank. On it appeared a logo featuring a stylized shark and emblazoned with the words "UES Marines" and "Macos." Hayes's squad.

The door opened, and the three who entered wore Marine BDUs. Greg stood. "What the hell?"

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Bridge

08:33

Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Tudyk loomed over the bound forms of the on-duty bridge crew, chagrined that one of them, Commander Matthews, was the vessel's third-in-command. At least the captain was safely ensconced under guard in the ready room. Standard Operating Procedure called for hauling out and depositing him with the others, but the gunny doubted he could steady his nerves while holding a gun, even a dart gun, on the CO. This deviation from SOP was justified, though, since segregating the captain ensured his officers wouldn't try anything.

"This is Tudyk," the gunny said, tapping his earpiece. "Bridge is secure."

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Weapons

08:34

A sergeant, his voice distorted by its conveyance through the comm system, said, "Engine room secure."

Another voice: "Armories one and three secure."

And another: "Armory two and four secure."

"Acknowledged," Major Hayes said. "Perkins, Weapons is yours. Barker, Watson, you're with me."

The named Marines fell into step beside the major and escorted him to the bridge where he parted from their company and proceeded to the ready room. Inside he found the captain leafing through an astronomy text and his guard standing at attention with sidearm holstered. When the door had closed, Hayes too snapped to attention.

Archer wheeled around. "I'm waiting for an explanation, Major."

"Five minutes, Captain."

"No, Major. Now."

"What I mean, sir," Hayes said, "Is that within five minute my men infiltrated your computer system and secured all vital areas on your ship. As of this moment we are in control."

A tense moment as Archer fought to maintain his composure, then, "Is this..._drill_ over?" At the major's nod, Archer hit the intercom. "Yeoman, patch me into Weapons and Engine Control."

"This is Corporal Callahan, sir," came the reply. "I can fulfill your request."

Hayes spoke up. "Securing communications was a vital objective. I'll have your yeoman released immediately."

"How about having all my people released? And restoring control of my computers?"

"Of course, sir." Hayes tapped his earphone and relayed the orders.

Noting the earphone, Archer said, "I don't recall authorizing those."

"Commander Tucker did, sir." A pause. "Unintentionally."

"Explain."

He did, and Archer cursed.

╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣

Conference Room

10:15

"In three minutes--"

"It was five."

"Excuse me, Commander?"

"Nothing, Admiral."

Archer groaned inwardly. Admiral Forrest's eyes were as cold as his voice; Trip should have known better than to speak. Given a few hours more, the engineer would gradually have abated, but it and his frustration were still open, throbbing wounds. Archer had seen it in the man's eyes when they met the Admiral at the airlock. It had remained there during the deathly quiet walk to the conference room, and it remained still. Forrest must surely have noticed it also, but was evidently in too foul a mood himself to care. Again, Trip reminded Archer of his dad, the brave scientist who kowtowed to no one. Henry had stood up to this very Admiral a time or two. But, unlike Henry, Trip had a military career to consider.

Forrest continued, "In _three_ minutes, Earth's brand new state-of-the-art flagship was taken, its computer systems commandeered by a virus installed by one of its command staff." He glared at Trip, daring him to speak. Wisely, the engineer bit his tongue. "Nice touch that, Major," Forrest said.

Yesterday morning Archer had conducted his first departmental briefing in this room. Today his people were being chewed here out like first year cadets. His baser half was grateful to avoid the brunt of the tongue lashing, but his higher self, his officer self, his Archer self resolved to step into the metaphorical line of fire if Forrest did not switch targets. His people's actions were his responsibility.

"So far," Forrest said, "we've been treating space exploration like it's one giant field trip. It's dangerous, but we've got our permission slips signed, so everything's going to be all right. Problems, when detected, are easily fixed. Stray meteoroids call for thicker hull plating. Faulty machinery for better designs. Human error for better people." At this, he skewered Tucker with another glance. Then he plowed on before Archer had time to make good on his vow. "Some problems have no easy solutions.

"No longer do we describe ourselves as 'people_s_ of the earth.' Despite our differences, we are united. We have eliminated war and poverty from our planet. The few conflicts we do have are colonial disputes. The future looks bright, but it takes a lot of polish to maintain that shine. We settle our conflicts diplomatically, sacrificing our lives rather than taking up arms against our fellow humans."

Was Forrest practicing a speech? Without realizing, Archer crossed his arms. He would have preferred hearing the Admiral rant.

"Every time Earth has employed arms these past five decades it's been the Marines who have done it. On land. We've run sims, we've run drills, but never once has UESPA engaged in ship-to-ship combat. The farther we get from home, the more likely that scenario is to play out. We're headed into hostile waters. You all have access to the Vulcan database. There are races catalogued there that will fire on us with little or no provocation. It is the belief of Fleet Command that members of one such race attacked _Palmyra_ one week ago today."

"Have the Vulcans confirmed that, sir?" Archer said.

"That question is best asked in private, Captain."

"These are my best people. I trust every one of them."

"But the Vulcans don't trust us," Trip said. "Not completely. It's okay, Captain. I'm sure the answer is beyond our clearance level for a reason." Trip's mask of good humor was back in place, but Archer could still detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Forrest said, "Actually, Commander, as Executive Officer you have the proper clearance."

"Hmm. I'm still XO. What do you know?"

"Trip," Archer said.

"Sorry, sir."

Forrest heaved a sigh and raised his voice to address the room. "No one planetside knows this drill happened, and it would be bad for morale if they did. I need not remind you that you are forbidden to speak about it to family, friends, and especially the press under penalty of court-martial. A security blackout is in effect thanks to Major Hayes. The blackout will be lifted within two hours. You are to relay this directive and its penalties to your subordinates before then. If this gets out, I will hold everyone in this room responsible. Captain Archer and Commander Tucker, please remain. The rest of you are dismissed."

As his staff filed out, Archer noticed Lieutenant Reed raising the icepack he'd kept hidden beneath the table during the debriefing back to his face. The swelling would be awful by the time of the deployment ceremony. Nothing to be done for it except to send him to MedBay and give Phlox his first patient. Reed would have to settle on a cover story--Archer was thinking bar fight or training accident--or hide himself away during the ceremony.

Trip sipped on a tumbler of water while Forrest consulted a padd. The silence drew on, until at last Forrest nodded to himself and powered down the padd. "Let's drop the military formality for now. Tucker, that was a damn stupid thing you did."

"Cole is a Marine, sir. She's on our side."

"She might have been compromised, or her equipment might have been sabotaged. You had no way of knowing."

"I know _her_," Trip said. "Least I thought I did."

"Is there something going on between the two of you?"

"No."

"Tucker?"

Trip sighed. "We grew up in the same city. I met her in high school. I know her family. That's all."

"All that makes her a prime target to subvert. It would be a sound tactic, getting to a command officer through an old...friend." Forrest didn't let Trip respond. "You're a hell of an engineer, with a hell of a mind. Use that mind to realize how thin the ice you're standing on is. We cannot have another incident. We do, and you're out of here. As in, off this ship. Behind a desk back in Bozeman."

"Sir," Archer said.

"Your influence only goes so far, Jon."

"It goes higher than you."

"Captain!" The voice was Trip's, as was the look that said, Thanks for what you're trying to do, but for the love of God shut up. "I understand, Admiral. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," Forrest said. "Your mission has become far more militaristic than we planned. Should the captain be incapacitated, your decisions will affect not only every life on this ship, but potentially every life on Earth. I don't want to lose you, Tucker, but I have to know I can rely on you to make such decisions. Tell me now, all cards on the table: can I rely on you?"

Trip sobered up. "On my life, Admiral, you can."

Forrest nodded, powered up his padd and slid it between the captain and his second. Both gasped.

"Yes, gentlemen," Forrest said, "you're getting nukes. Pray God you won't need them."

╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣

Ready Room

11:10

"It was my fault, Trip. Forrest knows that."

"You're an Archer. Nothing is your fault. I shouldn't have gone along with you, and I don't blame you. So, let's drop it, okay?"

"Okay." Archer leaned back in his chair. "About dinner tonight..."

Trip shook his head. "After Hayes disrupted my Engine Room for two hours, dinner is the last thing on my mind." He fluffed up the bed's single pillow and leaned back against it. "You need an extra chair in here."

"I can't eat with the Vulcan again without proper backup."

"From what I hear, you didn't eat with her the first time. What? I have my sources."

"So your uncle is a chef and a gossip," Archer said.

"Half the crew is doubling up duties. Why not him?"

Archer smiled. "At least he isn't tripling up. What's on the menu for tomorrow?"

"Don't _you_ start."

"Be at dinner, and I won't have to."

"What do you have against her?" Trip said. "That she's Vulcan?"

"I don't know how to act around them. On duty I'm fine, but off--how do you socialize with someone who never cracks a smile?"

"I bet your linguist could help with that. How about inviting her?"

"Hoshi's been with T'Pol all morning," Archer said.

"How about Reed?"

"He's not up for it. Hayes practically broke his jaw."

"Damn, those Maco boys play for keeps." Trip cracked his neck and Archer made a face. "Anyway," Trip said, "I haven't even invited her yet."

"Well, do it."

"Fine, I'll stop by her office."

"She's probably still at Hoshi's."

"Is that why Sato wasn't at Forrest's bore and grill?"

"Careful, and yes. T'Pol's office is technically a Vulcan consulate, and they have to approve any military ops within two clicks of their soil. When the Marines went to clear it with her, she told them where she'd be."

"So, you knew?"

Archer shook his head. "Found out after the fact. They're probably still there if you want to get that invite out of the way."

"Nah, I'll just message her."

"Trip..."

"I'll do it, I promise. But I ain't stopping by. If there's one thing my momma taught me, it's that a gentleman never interrupts girl talk."

"Even interspecies girl talk?"

"Especially interspecies girl talk."

_TBC_


	11. 3C: Tucker, Sato, Reed

Captain's Mess

_Enterprise_

9 April

18:00 UTC

Fork in hand, Trip wondered what T'Pol would think of his selecting the vegetarian meal. A human woman--Sato for instance who sat to his left--might analyze his motive. Was he trying to impress T'Pol? Or being considerate of her distaste for meat? Some human vegetarians found even the smell of meat unpleasant. The same might be true of Vulcans. Maybe he was unintentionally extending her a diplomatic courtesy. Sato had also selected the vegetarian dish, and Trip figured that was _her_ reasoning. This left Archer the odd man out as the only meat-eater at tonight's dinner, but the captain, happily munching on his steak, seemed unfazed. Eyeing the steak, Trip sighed to himself. Only twelve hours until Saturday morning sausage and eggs.

Archer was setting down his fork. Time to amp up the conversation, or the captain would bring this meal to a close.

"So, Captain..." What the hell could Trip ask him? _How's your dad?_ Too private._How about those nukes?_ Too classified. _Have you seen the new alien doc? Quirky fellow, ain't he?_ Too racist. And in front of the only other non-Terran on board. Bad idea. At last, "Repairs are coming along nicely. All evidence of the Marines' little stunt should be gone by tomorrow morning."

Archer frowned. "There was damage?"

"Some. My people put up a fight. Took out fifteen plasma relays and were on the verge of destabilizing a couple of the warp coils when Hayes's men subdued them."

"You call that _some_ damage."

"Sure," Trip said. "I staffed my department with the best--well, the best that the W-5 Complex was willing to part with, anyway. They took out exactly the right systems to expedite our repairs and stymie anyone else's. With the shortcuts I taught them...like I said, we'll have everything fixed by tomorrow morning, well before launch time."

Hoshi stifled a laugh.

Archer raised an eyebrow.

"What?" she said. "Tomorrow morning. Before _launch_ time. It was funny."

"I'll take your word on that," Archer said. Glancing at the chronometer on the wall, he said, "It's getting late--"

"I'm curious, T'Pol..." Trip said, then paused unsure how to continue. His focus was off tonight.

"That trait seems to be common among your species," T'Pol said. Hastily, she amended, "It is an admirable trait when employed in moderation."

Archer grinned broadly. "I don't think Trip was finished, T'Pol."

"No problem," Trip said. "Good advice is worth being interrupted for. Not that you interrupted me, T'Pol. I paused. So, it's...my...fault." _You're rambling._ "As I was saying, I'm curious about Vulcan humor. I assume you have it."

T'Pol inclined her head. It was not exactly a nod. "Indeed. One does not need an emotional impetus to appreciate a clever phrase. Vulcan children create puns to aid development of their language skills."

Ignoring the fact that he had just been compared to a child, Trip seized upon the opportunity given him. "Do you have children, Consol?" He thought switching to her title would make the question seem less personal.

"I have none," she said.

Useful information. Could he press her further without seeming to pry? So, are you married? _God in heaven! Dial down the libido._ This dinner was about fostering good relations between their governments, not fueling his fantasy life.

"And you, Commander?" T'Pol said.

"Me? No, no kids. I'm not married. Haven't even had a decent relationship in...that is, no, no kids."

"Did you know, Consul," Sato said, "that puns are at the heart--I'm sorry, the core of Japanese humor?"

"You need not apologize, Lieutenant. Human languages are replete with emotional terminology." She spared a glance at Trip. "French, I am told, is called the language of love." She turned back to Sato. "Yet it also a language of science and education. Tell me more of your people's humor."

Trip heard the gentle whoosh of the door opening and looked up in time to catch Archer's exit. He sighed. The Captain had loosened up a bit. That was something.

Trip speared a cherry tomato with his fork and took a bite. Time to learn a thing or two about Japanese humor. When he turned his attention back to the ladies, he was unnerved to find them both looking at him in silence. They averted their eyes and resumed their conversation after a moment, and Trip chalked it up to one of those weird happenstances that befuddle the male mind. Still, he wondered if he had missed something. Minutes later, after deciding that his primary goal had been accomplished and that any attempt to further his secondary goal of learning more about T'Pol would make him look foolish, he excused himself.

A cup of coffee, a visit to the Engine Room, and then off to bed.

╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣

"You know," Hoshi said, "I think he likes you."

"I did not know," T'Pol said, "though I suspected. It is not an unwelcome development."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, it will make working together more tolerable."

"Or complicate it immeasurably," Hoshi said with a hint of a grin. Interpersonal relationships had a language all their own. Not as precise as spoken language, but often far more honest. This could get very interesting. "Out of curiosity, T'Pol, have you married yet?"

╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣

Bridge

18:20

Reed found himself wishing he'd attended mass with his parents like he'd promised. Had he, he might not feel guilty about praying again. Okay, he would still feel guilty since he was praying for his three senior officers to be temporarily incapacitated. Were he in command, he could legally order Major Hayes to sod off.

According to the brochures, UESPA was not the military. Yet it still utilized a traditional military rank structure, and according to that structure, Marine Majors outranked Agency Lieutenants. Though Reed was fourth in command of the ship, Hayes was the fourth highest ranking officer onboard. If he acquired shipboard certification, the next step was dual rank, and, after that, integration into the chain of command. Should any of the other six lieutenants on board receive a promotion for meritorious service and be advanced ahead of Reed, it would not match the blow to his ego of losing to his position to someone who already outranked him. Why?

_Because the bastard punched you in the jaw._

Reed pressed the icepack to his face.

Another hour until his relief arrived, and then a good strong belt of liquor and the bottle of pain pills the doctor had prescribed awaited him in his quarters. He had resisted taking any while on duty.

When the door opened, Reed's hand moved to the wireless taser holstered at his side. His hand drifted away when he saw Captain Archer step off the lift. Reed stood and greeted the captain when he reached the command chair.

"Lieutenant, how's the jaw?"

"Fine, sir."

"Doesn't look it," Archer said. "Take the rest of the watch off. I'll take over here."

"Are you certain, sir?"

"Absolutely. I'm waiting on a transmission from earth."

With a nod and as much of a status report as the captain allowed him to offer with a swollen jaw, Reed took his leave. At the lift door, he turned back and watched Archer settle in. Captain's in his chair, he mused, all's right with the ship.

Magnetic constriction coils

I've always gravitated toward that era of history when the ideal of democracy was undiluted by the inherent failings of human government.

_TBC_


End file.
